Job Hunt (4 page)

“I see.” And Gareth did see. He saw the evidence of Jack’s crusade, the quiet fury that made Jack’s movements quick and sharp. The resolve and determination that were evident in the multitude of supplies and guises, in the careful preparation, and in the way Jack turned himself into a weapon that would never be recognized or suspected as such.

“So I’ll be a pimp?”

“No” came the swift reply. “No competition. I’ll draw his attention. You collect evidence.”

“What if someone propositions you?” Gareth would never know where Jack found that smile, but it was a valiant effort. It was even almost a smile.

“I’ll deal. Or we get out.”

“I vote we get out.” Jack wasn’t a helpless victim, but Gareth didn’t know if he could watch him having to deal with unwanted attention. Not when a fight would blow Jack’s cover, and he’d be catching hell from his boss the next morning for starting shit in public. “You have anything for a diversion?”

“Lollipops.” Jack pushed past Gareth and pointed to a blue cloth roll that lay open on his bed. “Remember those?”

Gareth remembered the ridiculous smoke bombs disguised as sweets they’d used on one of their training exercises. Whoever had come up with the things had clearly read too much James Bond and was channeling Q. “Really?” he complained. “Do you have to make me look like Kojak?”

“Who?”

“Never mind. Be grateful you’re not old enough.” He picked up a couple of the cellophane wrapped sweets—military issue, every last one—and pushed them into his pocket. “What does the target look like?”

“Caucasian male. Medium height and build, pale blue eyes and light blond hair in a bob or a low tail.”

“That sounds like the guy who was just here. Baxter?”

“Don’t even. Clive may act like an ass, but he’s one of the good guys.”

“If you say so. Are we ready?”

“What do you think?”

Jack sashayed toward him like a model on a catwalk, and Gareth struggled for air just watching. “I’d better not tell you what I think of that getup,” he managed through half-clenched teeth. “Professionally speaking? Hot and not legal.”

“Good. Let’s hope the pimp thinks so,” Jack said and hesitated in the hallway. “Where did you park?”

“Across the road. Why?”

Jack grabbed a trench coat and slung it around his shoulders. “Don’t want to get you arrested.”

Gareth imagined himself being hauled before a magistrate for soliciting a minor. And Julian Nancarrow’s reaction when he found out. “You have a dirty mind, brat,” he groaned as they got into the Ranger.

“Sure,” Jack agreed. “But I was the one who thought of bringing the coat.”

J
ACK
KEPT
his eyes closed during the drive, but he was far from relaxed. Gareth kept shooting glances in the younger man’s direction as he drove, noting the tight fists, the frown, and the shoulders that almost touched Jack’s ears.

“You okay?” he finally asked as they neared the address Jack had given him.

A sweep of long lashes, a half turn of a head, and Jack’s gaze locked with Gareth’s. “Belladonna’s making me queasy.”

“Then why do you use that shit?”

“Gets the look. Stop here.”

“Hm,” Gareth grunted and pulled the Range Rover alongside the curb when Jack pointed out Baxter’s Vauxhall parked up ahead. “So, you’re going into this tense and feeling queasy. Any other important intel you want to share?”

“Watch what you drink.” Jack got out of the car and shed his coat, throwing it into the backseat without another look. “Stick to bottled, and keep it close.”

“What about you?”

Jack flashed a quick grin. “I’m broke. And clumsy.”

“As long as you’re careful.”

“I’m always careful.” Jack waved a hand to the detective in the car. Then he turned, took a couple of deep breaths, and started to walk down the street toward his destination as if he had no thought in his head beyond a good night out.

Gareth watched him go, sure that Jack’s queasiness, whether caused by nerves or belladonna, would make no difference to the outcome of the evening. Jack would get the job done, whatever he needed to do. This, in Gareth’s estimation, still didn’t make it right. He watched until Jack had rounded the corner before he crossed the square to the waiting detective and climbed into the car.

“Are you two friends?” he asked as soon as he’d closed the door.

“Yes.”

“Then why d’you do this to him?” Gareth didn’t bother to hide the snarl in his voice. “You’re sending him into that club without backup… since when’s that in the playbook?”

“You said that you would back him up.” Baxter sounded confused, which only pushed Gareth’s ire up a notch.

“I
will
back him up. The point is that I just happened to be with Jack when you showed up. And you were pushing him into going alone and unarmed.”

“Jack can handle himself.”

“Again, not the point.” Gareth was growling now. “If you ask someone to risk their life, the least you do is provide backup. Don’t they teach that anymore, or do you just not care?”

Gareth watched the blond carefully, and the confusion on the man’s face sent icy shivers down his spine. Who was this guy that he ignored basic security protocol without batting an eyelash? That he was prepared to risk a friend’s life for a crusade? All of a sudden, Gareth Flynn was afraid. Not for himself, but for a courageous brunet with a crusade of his own. He couldn’t bear the thought of Jack being manipulated into risking his life for a cause. Even if that cause was just.

“If there was another way to get this done….” Baxter hesitated over his words. “I don’t often ask for Jack’s help. I know it’s dangerous, and I only seek him out when he’s the only option left.”

The careful words did nothing to ease Gareth’s disquiet, and he resolved to keep an eye on Jack’s interaction with the detective, whether Jack decided to join Nancarrow Mining or not. But that was for tomorrow. Right now watching Jack’s back was more important.

“Detective, I don’t know you.” Gareth forced calm into his voice. “But Jack trusts you, so I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. I won’t assume that you risk a friend’s life for brownie points. Or worse, a personal vendetta. But if I ever find out that you do….”
I’ll nail your damned ass to the fence.
He let the words sink in for a few seconds, then turned on his scary grin. “Now. Did you bring an evidence kit?”

“Yes, what do you need?” It seemed that Detective Inspector Baxter was more comfortable with practical matters than questions of ethics. Gareth didn’t find that at all amusing.

“A couple of bags and tape.”

Baxter numbered the items and handed them over. Gareth stowed the supplies in the inside pockets of his jacket and nodded his thanks. “Make sure there are units in the area, just in case we get lucky. You never know, you might have your perp behind bars sooner than you thought.”

Gareth was reaching for the door handle when Baxter stopped him with a question.

“What’s Jack to you, Mr. Flynn?”

The answer came easy to Gareth. “Family. Jack Horwood is family.”

C
HAPTER
FOUR
O
FFERS

S
NATCHES
OF
synth and bass beat spilled across the street, along with flashes of colored lights, an ever-changing mix of red and green, of purple and bright white. A queue of gaudily dressed people lined the pavement, and while two towering figures stood guard over the club’s large metal doors, those two were the harmless ones. Two slighter men beside the bouncers had control over who entered the club and who was turned away. One by one, they pushed waiting patrons against the wall and patted them down before allowing them inside.

At least Clive has better intel this time,
Jack thought, approaching the end of the queue.
The pimp’s here. And as paranoid as reported.

Arriving obviously armed would have ended the night early. Not that Jack ever went
unarmed
, of course. Anywhere. Though that wasn’t a fact he advertised.

Next in the queue was a woman in a leather miniskirt and knee-high boots. She giggled and batted her lashes as she was told to lean on the wall. Hands roamed, and the giggle became an indignant squeak when fingers slipped under her skirt.

“Watch your hands, mate!” The woman spun away from the wall and glowered.

“If you want in, you follow the rules,” the man retorted, and Jack wasn’t the only one who heard the unspoken
bitch
at the end of that sentence. A young couple in front of him slipped out of the queue and turned back down the street, muttering about better places for a fun night out.

Jack couldn’t agree more, but he wasn’t here for fun, not when a good quarter of the kids in the queue didn’t look old enough to drink, or when the bouncers didn’t turn even one of them away.

When he reached the front of the queue, Jack leaned against the wall, hands beside his head as instructed. He flinched when rough hands slid up his legs and along his ass, but he kept his eyes open. The bastard was doing more than checking for weapons, but unless he wanted to break his cover, all Jack could do was fume about it.

Footsteps and laughter sounded from down the road, and Jack turned his head toward the noise to distract himself. Of the three approaching men, two were strangers, but they laughed and joked with Gareth as if they’d known one another for ages. The tight coil of tension between Jack’s shoulder blades unraveled a notch. Gareth had always had a knack for meshing with crowds, and some things, like the sun and the moon and Gareth Flynn, just never changed.

It warmed Jack that his former CO hadn’t been thrown by his disguise. It warmed him even more that Gareth hadn’t tried to talk him out of the job. Gareth Flynn might call him by the nickname he had bestowed on a snot-nosed seventeen-year-old, but he trusted Jack’s instincts and decisions enough to back him up without question. Unconditional support like that was worth more than Jack could adequately explain.

A sharp swat on his ass drew Jack from his thoughts. Without looking at the man—he had the face memorized already—Jack stepped away from the wall, his stash of weapons undiscovered. He entered the club when the bouncer waved him through and stopped just inside the doors to get his bearings.

The place was dark, which was a blessing given Jack’s light-sensitive eyes, and much larger than the outside suggested. Once upon a time, it had served as a workshop or a small warehouse. Most of the internal walls had been removed, leaving a wide rectangular space with two rows of floor-to-ceiling brick columns dividing two narrower aisles from the main part of the room. Raw red bricks formed the walls and scuffed, heavy-duty vinyl covered the floor and the lower half of the columns. Racks of spotlights made a grid pattern overhead, and a bar ran along the far side of the room, the chrome top reflecting the light. Tables and benches took up the aisle to Jack’s left. The dance floor occupied the center. Emergency exit doors were to his right, between the kitchen entrance and the DJ booth.

The club was just starting to get busy. About half the tables were taken, and a few couples busied themselves on the dance floor while the DJ warmed up. Jack turned left and followed the line of columns, intent to confirm the layout of the place while he could still move unimpeded.

On the far left-hand side of the room, next to the bar, Jack marked a second emergency exit. And another door which, given the fact that it was guarded, could be an escape route or a way to private rooms deeper in the building. With the pimp’s paranoia and Baxter’s information that the man liked to sample the merchandise before he put it on display, either option was feasible.

The guard didn’t look as if he stood there just for decoration, and though Jack would have liked to take a closer look to confirm where the door led, he kept moving, heading in the direction of the brightly lit bar. He felt the man’s eyes on his back and resisted the urge to check his weapons. There was no need. The knives, wires, CS gas, and Taser were exactly where he’d stowed them before leaving home. Besides, it was just a nervous habit he’d picked up after Gareth got shot. A habit he’d been too stubborn to do anything about.

Gareth was already in position when Jack finally drew level with the bar. He held a bottle of Stella in one hand and juggled a scrunched-up colored cellophane wrapper with the other while he watched the dancers.

With their emergency exit taken care of and their target not yet in sight, Jack relaxed enough to settle into his role. Leaning on the far end of the bar, he ordered bottled water and surreptitiously popped a couple of pills. They were just painkillers, needed to help with the headache caused by the flashing lights aggravating his belladonna-enhanced eyes, but people saw what they wanted to see, and Jack didn’t mind the covert looks he attracted. It all helped him blend.

He hit the dance floor a few minutes later, trying to ignore the knowledge that the man he’d fallen for when he was just seventeen was watching him. Thoughts like that would get him precisely nowhere. Much safer if he didn’t consider Gareth Flynn at all and concentrated on the kids swaying and bopping around him. Some were there for the music and a good time, some—wide-eyed and hesitant—were clearly there on a dare.

Two teenage boys, one blond, one dark, huddling at the far end of the bar, caught Jack’s eye. They clung together in a way teenagers never do, and both had their arms hidden in long sleeves despite the heat in the club. Dark-circled eyes darted around the room without pause or consideration, and when Gareth, alerted by a couple of quick hand signs and a look, brushed close past the two on his way to the men’s room, both flinched and shrank back farther into their corner.

Likely candidates, those two. Underfed, scared as all get-out, and probably hooked too. At least the two had the sense to stick together. Another body close by to combat loneliness, a voice to chase away the nightmares…. Jack knew how little comfort this was, but it was better than no comfort at all. The fine line between giving in and keeping going, between a sliver of hope and total despair.